


Back Into The Fray

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling responsible for turning Sam's life upside down by bringing him back into 'the family business', Dean comforts his brother the best way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Into The Fray

**Author's Note:**

> Set about 2 weeks after 1x02 and Jessica's death.

"C'mon, you gotta get up and eat something. Look, I got you Lucky Charms."

Sam doesn't respond to the cereal box pushed into his shoulder, but Dean can tell his little brother is awake. Dean gets it. He knows Sam's dealing with some serious shit, things that even he can't understand. But it's kinda not optional, the eating thing, if you want to continue breathing and Dean certainly isn't above pleading.

" _Please_ Sammy?"

"Fuck off."

Dean sits down on the edge of his own bed and watches the thin, flower-patterned blanket rise and fall with Sam's breathing on the other. Sam is curled like a child in the middle of his bed with his back to Dean. Dean drops the box of cereal with a thump and rubs his eyes hard to push back tears.

 _"No matter what, you have to take care of Sammy."_ All Dean's life, that's been his job, his mission, the _one_ thing he put above everything else. Now Dad's missing and Jessica's dead and it all has to be his fault somehow because it always is. He never should've gone to Stanford and he never should've dragged Sam back into this and now Sam won't let him apologize. Hell, it's been three weeks and Sam still won't even look at him.

Dean kicks off his boots and shirks out of his jacket and overshirt. He looks down at the box of cereal on the floor, turns it face down with his foot, and pushes it away. The need to make this right wells up from the pit of his stomach, washing over him and tightening his jaw like a sick feeling. He looks back up at Sam's inert body and makes up his mind.

"I know you don't wanna talk but you have to listen to me. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry everything went the way it did and I'm sorry I fucked everything up and I know you hate me and it's okay because you're still my brother even if you hate me and I just want you to know that when you're ready to talk to me again.. _if_.. if you're ever ready to talk to me again.. I'm not going anywhere. I'm still going to be here and I don't care if you like it or not."

He falls silent, cringing at how stupid and ineloquent and needy he sounds and reaches up to squeeze the bridge of his nose again because no matter what else happens today, he's _not_ going to cry. When he hears the tears in Sam's voice, his chest constricts so tightly he feels like he'll never be able to breathe again.

"I don't hate you, Dean."

Sam sounds so small and tired, his voice is raw and Dean wonders if he cried all night. Again. The thought twists like a knife in Dean's gut; it makes his hands shake as he moves toward Sam's bed. Dean pushes his jeans off impatiently, tangling his legs together in the process and nearly falling. He can't stand one more second of this distance between them. He _has_ to fix this and he only knows one way to do that.

Sam's body tenses when Dean touches his bare back and he tries to move away. Dean follows stubbornly, sliding under the covers and curling his body behind Sam's. It feels good, feels right to be pressed against Sam. It feels like it's where he's supposed to be. Sam voices discontent when Dean's fingers wrap around the spur of his hip over the thin fabric of his underwear, but he doesn't pull away.

"It's okay, Sammy. Everything's gonna be okay."

Dean hasn't _touched_ Sam since the night before he left for Stanford. That was night he begged Sam not to go, told him that he needed him, that Dad needed him, too, even if he wouldn't say so. Dean tries not to think about that night as he slides his arm around Sam's chest to pull him closer; it's been a long time since he felt like he was doing anything useful.

"I promise."

**********

Dean sleeps soundly for the first time in months curled protectively around Sam. When consciousness starts to tug at the edges of his mind, the sun is going back down. In his still half-asleep haze it takes a second to remember where he is, whose back is pressed warm to his chest. The realization that Sam only burrowed closer in his sleep gives Dean hope that he won't break his promise.

Sam shifts in his sleep and Dean holds his breath until he is still again. This morning Sam cried until he exhausted himself into a fitful sleep; Dean held his brother and gave quiet reassurances that, no matter what else happened, they had each other. Now he wants to let Sam sleep as long as he needs to before he has to face this bullshit reality again.

When Sam half-stretches and murmurs, Dean tightens his hold. Uncertain whether Sam is really awake, Dean presses a tentative kiss to his shoulder then another to the juncture of shoulder and neck.

"Sam?" His question is barely more than a breath into the soft spot behind Sam's ear.

"Hm."

"You awake?" Dean rubs the flat of his palm over Sam's chest, smiles against his neck when he feels the sleep thick rumble of Sam's reply under his hand.

"Yeah. How long was I out?"

"A while."

Sam stays curled and relaxed, so Dean lets his hand drift down over his stomach, pushes his chin hard against Sam's shoulder. When he kisses Sam's neck again, his brother arches, bares more skin. Dean draws a sharp breath and lets it out on a sigh as he feels the knot of worry in his stomach start to ebb. He moves slowly until his hand is on Sam's hip, fingers slipping under the waistband of Sam's underwear.

Dean kisses Sam's shoulder again, wet and open-mouthed, as he slides his hand across smooth skin until his knuckles brush against the hardness of Sam's cock. The contact makes Sam's hips jerk and his breath catch. Dean is painfully hard, his underwear wet with leaking precome as he grinds against Sam's ass. He swallows and bites Sam's neck, drawing a whimper that sends his blood racing hot.

"Okay?" It's a formality, really; Dean knows the answer. He knows what every sound Sam makes means. That's why he's already slipping his fingers in a loose fist around Sam's cock as he asks. Sam's answer is a soft groan and reaching down to push his underwear out of the way to give Dean room to work.

It may have been a long time, but Dean knows exactly how Sam likes to be touched; hell, he helped Sam figure out for himself how he liked to be touched. He strokes slowly up and down Sam's thick shaft, pulls his fist over the tight head to gather precome then pushes it back down hard. Sam tenses, rolls his hips to fuck into Dean's hand.

Dean forgets about kissing Sam at all, panting against his shoulder instead as their hips work out a familiar rhythm that belies the fact that they were ever separated by time or distance. Dean didn't realize how much he'd missed this until this very moment, rutting against Sam, urging his brother forward into the fist he's slowly tightening, barely twisting with a flick of his wrist.

Sam's breath is ragged, choked with whimpers and moans. His body quivers, every muscle tight as Dean strokes faster, squeezes harder, fucks against Sam's ass and into the friction of his own underwear. He wants to make this last, wills himself to relax, relax, _relax_. But Sam coming undone under his touch does it for him like nothing else and he growls and thrusts, short and tight.

"Missed you so much, Sammy," he breathes, jerking Sam in a quick rhythm to match his own hips, sliding his thumb over the crown of Sam's cock to smear his slick and tease at the slit. Sam groans again, a sound that trails into a bitten off whine as he shoves his hips forward and half twists his body. Dean expects the thick spill of sticky hot come before he feels it coating his fingers; he uses it to stroke Sam through orgasm.

When Sam reaches back and grabs Dean's hip to pull him forward, Dean loses the will to hold back. He arches into Sam, rutting like a teenager as the tight knot at the base of his spine spills over, leaving him trembling and moaning against Sam's sweaty shoulder. He never comes as hard as he does with his brother, evidenced by spurt after spurt smearing thick inside his underwear and the feeling like he's falling off the edge of the world with nothing to keep him from floating away but his hold on Sam's hip.

When the white out vision clears enough that Dean can breathe again, he wraps his arm back around Sam's chest and pulls him close. They gasp and cling to one another and start words that never finish and nothing else in the world exists except this moment between them. Dean kisses Sam's shoulder then rests his cheek against it as he starts to relax again.

Even though he slept all day, he feels sleepy again, a feeling that wars with his need to at least get out of his t-shirt and underwear so he can feel Sam's skin against his. It's fully dark in the motel room except for the glow of the neon-lit sign before a word is spoken. Dean is drifting somewhere in the vicinity of sleep when Sam asks softly, "Did you really go out and get Lucky Charms for me?"


End file.
